Not Even That
by silvereyedbitch
Summary: After CoS. Only difference from the end is that Damien never had the meeting with the dark-haired stranger. This story takes up after that. Warning: M/M, D&G, Nothing explicit but not for under 18


Disclaimer: None of this will probably ever see the light of day so that it could even conceivably be thought of as original characters, but just in case, I must denote that these are C.S. Friedman's creations. I simply use them to my satisfaction.

A/N: Alright, I'm back. And here is a little story I've been piecing together over the last few months. I don't get much time to myself anymore with my college requirements, so it's been monstrous trying to compose this without forgetting parts of it during the process and then making them not conflict with what I was currently writing. Sheesh. So I apologize if anything happens like one second someone's standing and then later it says they stand up. LOL! I caught one part already where Damien had a sword and then I had never mentioned it again. Anyway, this is more along the lines of my "usual" stories I suppose. Not much hard stuff in it, but enough that I wouldn't rate this for under 18.

Setting: After Crown of Shadows' horrid ending wherein Tarrant was inexplicably killed by that twit Andrys. Let's say things had proceeded as the book had written, with the exception of the meeting between Damien and the pseudo-Tarrant. Personally, I believe the olive-skinned, dark haired young man Damien met was the Iezu child created of Tarrant's "Hunter" essense, and was not to be believed as being the man himself reincarnated at all. But, to save the issue from deliberation and possible contamination, let's just erase that single part of the end of the trilogy shall we? And now, we shall proceed with how it would continue after the Patriarch's death, Tarrant's murder, and Erna being forever changed by both of these sacrifices.

Not Even That

"It has no power of its own, if that's the question. Nor would it fade with time. Only death can sever that kind of link-and sometimes not even that." –Gerald Tarrant, Black Sun Rising.

Brooding. Ruminating. Damien Vryce delved deep within the treacherous depths of his soul as he recalled those very words, flowing from lips as smooth and cold as freshly fallen snow. He shivered at the recollection, but not quite in fear…something else? Something deeper and more subtle than conscious thought would allow… He had become somewhat obsessed with the adept since their last night at the keep. Every other thought seemed to consist of some remnant of a time now dead and gone. _How does one get over this kind of event? This kind of loss?_ he asked himself repeatedly. Finding that he held a deep rooted hope for the Hunter's salvation just as that very same personage had been violently taken from him had broken things inside of himself he had previously been unaware of. He had given it a name: Friendship. Twisted and dark, yes, but true friendship all the same. At least, that was the best moniker he could come up with at this time. And because of this friendship, he was plagued, nay, _haunted_ by the events that had played out in the keep on that nightmarish day.

Conversations held with Tarrant in the depths of night came unbidden during Damien's daylight hours. He pondered their words to each other as a scholar studies ancient poetry. Those subtle implications sprinkled with sharp sarcasm became hour-long recollections for him. Quirks of the deceased's character bled into his everyday life. Did the grocer position his fingers just so? Was that shadow darker than the others? The man in the bookstore, did he hold Damien's gaze with a penetrating and familiar stare, or was it just the lighting? He found himself constantly analyzing the crowds, looking for someone who could not possibly be there. And yet it seemed…it seemed… It was as though you could feel him there, just at the edges of visual perception. One slight turn of the head or flick of the eyes, and he was gone. A voice, heard just beyond the level of comprehension, but smooth and familiar in its cadence, would reach him every now and then through the clamor of the market crowds. And with startling clarity, for but a moment, he was in another time. Another place.

_Have I truly gone insane?_ he asked himself that night as he lay down. The apartment was silent around him, moonlight filtering mist-like through the window. Today, the feeling had been with him almost every minute. It wasn't ever quite this afflicting before, this comprehensive. But even so, for the day's entirety he had felt the presence of another thrumming through his soul. Soft as the last breath of life, yet as poignant as its first, he _knew_ that presence. And it resonated throughout his being, leaving sparkling trails of…happiness?...something else?…until he remembered the causative agent of these feelings, and that it was now beyond all human contact. And so he lay there in his austere bedding that night, attempting once more the mental exercises of his order, so that he might gain some measure of peace.

The serenity of the repetitions lasted but minutes before his thoughts began to intrude once more. _What about my dreams? Are they getting worse? More often? Or do I just notice them more now that I am aware of them?_ he thought to himself. Once or twice a week had been the start of it, commencing just days after Tarrant's death. Most were comprised of ambiguous scenes involving snatches of conversations previously held with the Hunter. However, of late, the conversations and actions were not simply memories repeating themselves, but new dialogs altogether. And the topics were many and varied, leaving him lost as to the meanings behind them. How will the church fare in this new world of fae that no longer responds to mankind? Will he rejoin his order and seek absolution through his work? What does he think of a particular genetic trait that had been implemented in the Forest's equine stock so many generations ago?

So unassuming, so vague, and so nonthreatening were these dreams that Damien had begun to ignore them altogether. He rationalized them as his mind's way of coping with the death of such an important figure in his life. His subconscious was holding on to the other man's memory in an effort to deny his death. But the last few nights had strayed from the norm. Not vastly, no. And at first, he didn't pay any attention to the differences. They were subtle, so subtle…like _him_.

Mountainside, midnight, with a hint of a brisk wind. They were examining a rock formation that didn't fit the area's geological history. Hands upon the source of their intrigue, pointing out flaws and delineations to each other. And then, just as the Hunter had turned to face the stars, the adept's fingers brushed across Damien's. Light as an angel's wings and cool as an autumn breeze. There and gone. So unaccustomed to physical contact of any kind from the other man, Damien's body reacted strangely. A kind of thrill ran through his arm and into his chest, not unlike the adrenaline felt when one is suddenly spooked. And that was all… At least, for _that_ dream. In another, they had just finished speaking of the new demarcation of the church's boundaries in the north. Each stood facing the other, silence stretching out between them. And it seemed to the priest that Tarrant held his gaze somewhat longer than was absolutely necessary. It wasn't an uncomfortable feeling really, more like…unknown. Uncharted. In life, or unlife as it were, the adept had rarely done things of this nature, and so he had no reference point to work from. But then those silver eyes flicked out to the horizon, and the moment was gone. Was it ever there to begin with?

So many tiny things. Alone, they were not even noticeable. Together, they had begun to convince Damien of his own growing insanity. Last night's dream was stranger still. He and Tarrant were walking through a daylight version of the Forest. Sunlight filtered down through the branches above them, lending a glow like that of early spring. They came to a halt before a small stream and observed its course for a while. The sound of the Forest and the burbling water lulled Damien into a half-trance of relaxation. And so he didn't realize until the last second that Tarrant was suddenly closer to him than before. Much closer. Whereas they had been observing the waters together from a few feet apart, now they were standing where their shoulders touched lightly. Cold threaded its way through the priest's arm as it remained in contact with the Hunter's own.

And into the springtime beauty, the Hunter spoke, not looking at him at first, "I have to know. Do you see?" Then the adept turned his body and his face to Vryce, so close. "I will know first," he whispered. And the long and delicate fingers reached up towards Damien's face, stopping once they found his cheek. They rested there for seconds before Damien had found himself awake and staring at the ceiling, his face still tingling from the chill of the Hunter's hand.

He lay awake in bed this night, wondering at the oddity. _What is it he wanted to know?_ _And why am I dreaming this stuff?_ And then he thought of the Hunter's touch. It made him feel strange, different. Not in a bad way exactly, just an unknown reaction yet to be categorized. But dwelling on Tarrant for any length of time always ended in one way. And as the tears began to fall and the guilt settled in, Damien cursed his subconscious mind for torturing him in this manner. It wasn't enough that the man had been practically murdered in his proximity. No. His mind just couldn't let go and allow him the peace of numbness that comes with time and separation. _And why am I even this upset anyway? The man was a murderer for centuries. He may have become something of a friend to __**me**__ in the end, but that doesn't wipe clean the slate of blood he accrued._ But even so, the visage of Gerald Tarrant, calm, collected, cold…beautiful? _Eh? _he thought as he drifted back off, tears leaving glittering paths on his tanned skin.

Nighttime. Top of the old keep. Damien walked out onto the observatory, standing under the night sky as he had long ago when he first met the Hunter and knew him for what he was. Or thought he did anyway. And there he was now. Tall form silhouetted against the stars, leaning onto the rim of the walkway. Damien approached, but he found suddenly that he was watching from a distance and had no control over his actions. And so the priest watched as Tarrant turned when he reached him, the soft starlight giving an angelic silvery glow to the length of him. And as Damien looked on, he saw his own hand reach out and slide around Tarrant's waist. Gerald mimicked the gesture, and then, slowly, gracefully, they began dancing under the stars to an unheard melody. _Waltzing_. The word floated through Damien's mind as he remembered an old Earth-tradition dance that had still held some popularity during Gerald's human lifetime. _What is going on here?_ he thought as the strange scene unfolded, but kept watching intently. You could almost feel the music that went unheard, sliding around and over the scene. And then the pair stopped, suddenly, and Gerald whirled to face where Damien's incorporeal form observed. He seemed to be studying something, perhaps the priest's reaction? And then a blackness fell down over Damien, and he awoke the next morning with a headache and vague recollections of dancing with the most feared being on Erna.

He went through his day more and more convinced that something was actually happening to him, not just a simple case of insanity and grief. After much concentration, and a few odd looks in a coffee shop, he had pinpointed the feeling of the other's presence. It was the bond. It was still _there_. And though he couldn't feel the other man the way he used to, the fact that it was present and intact served as salve for his frayed nerves. _Perhaps __**that**__ is the cause of all this weirdness? He died, but the bond did not, and it is giving me echoes of him through my dreams._ This seemed to make a certain logical sense to him, and so he decided on attempting to take more control of his dreams this time around. He meandered through the remainder of the day with this new purpose in mind, plotting his night.

Before bed, he prepared himself mentally to enter his dreamworld more fully in control so as not to be led around by a fae-created bond this night. He entered his dreams softly and with some amount of awareness. He had no control over the environment, but at least he could control his own actions and understood that he was truly dreaming. This dreamscape apparently took place on the Golden Glory when they were bound across the ocean. It was twilight, and he found the Hunter at the rear of the ship, observing the waves spreading out from the wake of the great vessel. The adept turned and stared for a moment before giving one of his half-smiles and turning away again. A soft voice carried to Damien's ears, "Bravo, priest. I see there'll be no more sneaking into your hours of slumber." Damien stood silently for a few moments and then closed the distance he was from Tarrant and glared at him, an angry retort dying upon his lips as he drew up beside the man.

Tarrant stood stock-still, leaning upon the railing and staring unseeing into the waves. And it wasn't the expression on the adept's face that had halted Damien's speech. It was something deeper, visceral. _Pain_ was palpable here. Fear, hurt, longing, and a deep and abiding pain washed over the priest. And though he couldn't be certain, he believed them to belong to the man at the railing. This was certainly different! Maybe he really _was_ going insane? He fumbled for words, and managed only a scanty, "Why?" before clamming up completely. And he watched in silence as the Hunter straightened, looking first the other way and breathing deeply. When the adept turned to face him, his expression was difficult to read. Not because of a lack of visual clarity or anything else mundane, but because Damien had never seen its like on the other man's face before. He couldn't place it, no matter how he tried.

"To know, Vryce," was all he said. The wind picked up a bit and blew around and between them. "Know what?" Damien queried, growing impatient with this specter. Tarrant again looked toward the sea before answering, the wind and waves growing ever more restless. A light rain began to fall, softly collapsing against the wooden deck. Yet even though the waves were crashing around them, the ship sat as though becalmed. "You," Tarrant finally responded. Damien was now thoroughly confused and not just a little angry. These were the kind of cryptic responses that had plagued him even when the adept had been alive. _Me?_ _What about me? How I feel? That's it. I've had it,_ Damien thought to himself before saying, "Me? You wanna know about me? Alright then. I feel horrible, man. You _died_, and I _lived_, and it should have been both of us. _Together_. I don't know how he got in there, but that doesn't matter now. You were so close to me, and yet I left you there. I still don't even know why." Damien began to feel something unknot inside himself. His anger was melting before other emotions. And those held within were bursting forth, and the pain of them was overwhelming. It flowed out around his limbs, making them feel leaden. "And I'm so sorry. There's no way to change anything now, though, is there? And so I'll take this pain with me forever. I failed you. I failed you in the worst way." He hit his knees on the deck, and the storm without grew more violent by the minute. Eyes closed, he choked out a feeble, "I failed you. I'm so sorry." And then, barely whispered, "And I miss you, you bastard."

Damien awoke kneeling on his bed, his pillow soaked from his tears. The bond within him was throbbing with an overpowering sense of emotional turmoil. That was it. He had to get out of here. Glancing at the window, he noted that it was only just before dawn. Plenty of time then. Yes, that was it. Action was needed here. Quickly dressing and grabbing his pack, he threw clothing and a few other essentials inside and was on his way shortly thereafter, which seemed to calm the throbbing somewhat. He had no destination in mind originally, but as he walked, he soon discovered that his heading would return him to the scene of the very font of his troubles. He stopped dead in the street. While he stood unmoving, the throbbing of the bond returned full-force. Tentatively, he took a step towards the Forest…and it died down again. Early morning traffic and pedestrians continued to flow around him as he stood there. "Huh," he snorted, and resumed traveling in that direction.

Damien had been staying at the town in closest proximity of the Forest since the Hunter's death. Partly, it was because he just couldn't summon enough effort to actually care anymore, but now he was beginning to suspect it was something else entirely that had kept him from moving on. A feeling was building in his gut, one that he didn't fully appreciate yet, but it made him feel an urgency to his movements. And so he made excellent time. About half a day later, when he reached the edge of the Forest, which was still mostly alive thanks to a fire-bred resistance instilled in the plant life, the feeling doubled him over for a second. Someone was waiting for him. Or perhaps some_thing_? That was the feeling he was experiencing. The feeling that someone was awaiting his arrival. Or that something was left undone. It was as if he had been apart from a lover for too long and was rushing back to her arms. But he wasn't. There was no one there. Right?

He began to jog as he entered the leafy greenery. It was not near as sinister in appearance as it had once been during the Hunter's reign, but there still clung to it a certain malicious feel. The feeling of being observed. The shadows seeming darker than they had a right to and all that. But Damien had eyes for one purpose only. Get to the keep. Find the source of this pull on his bond. End his insanity. And so he ran.

It took almost another half day again of this. But Damien was a hardened warrior, and his endurance running was still up to snuff despite the days spent languishing in that apartment. He reached the courtyard of the ancient keep as the sun was setting, but the Core was still fully up. He needed time to breathe now, to think. He sat at a fountain for a time, drinking his fill and dousing his face and neck with the cool water. And when he recovered his breath, he noted that the throbbing had dulled to a slow ache now. Standing slowly and performing a routine of stretches, he braced himself for what he might find inside the keep. And then he cursed himself for a fool for not having brought along any weaponry other than his boot knife. Excellent. Proceeding with extra caution now, he went to the huge wooden doors and forced one open, letting the dying light of evening filter into the heavy gloom held within.

Once inside, there was little illumination to be had. However, as Damien's eyes adjusted to the enshrouding darkness, he was struck by how circular his life had ended up. Here he was, yet again approaching the Hunter, but with trepidation of a different sort. So many emotions back then. Anger. He remembered that, too. He had come here full of it. Righteous wrath kept him going back then. Senzei had been injured, and Ciani was here somewhere as a prisoner, or worse. And there had sat the Prince of Jehanna, Gerald Tarrant. Founder and almost-destroyer of his faith. Black and white had been so easily determined then. Him: good. Tarrant: bad. End of story. Where had it changed? And when? He wondered this over and over as he took in the melancholy scene of the Hunter's keep in such disrepair. _Tarrant would never have suffered this_, he thought to himself.

Just out of a slight morbid curiosity, he headed for the inner chapel. Upon entering it, all hope died within him. Surely if the person he wanted most in the world to be here was actually present, this would be the one place not affected by the ravages of the soldiers. And yet, the few small pews were broken and toppled. The alter turned on its side. Even the beautiful depiction of Earth had been desecrated and ruined. It hurt something deep inside him to see these things, and he had yet to really recognize why. After all, these were just things. _But they were __**his**__ things. Important to __**him**__, _he thought_._ And therefore, they held some intrinsic meaning to Damien, lending to him a sadness that was building in each of his steps. He left the chapel with bright eyes and began a journey towards the lower levels with a heavy heart.

Along the way, he found a lamp with a goodly supply of oil remaining in it. He also pulled down a decorative sword from the walls. Hey, it might be sparkly, but it had a better reach than the dagger. He found the entrance to the cellars and laboratory shortly thereafter. The darkened door facing him filled him with such a sense of impending dread that he had to sit down for a while before going on. He ate some trail biscuits as he rested and attempted to prepare himself for what might lie beyond the door to his side. A headless corpse half-rotted away flashed before his mind's eye. He almost retched on his food just then. No, he wouldn't think of that. And even if it were so, he could still bury his friend. He owed him that much at least. He owed him that. And so much more…

And with that last thought, Damien began to cry. It wasn't the soft weeping of someone with sad reminiscences. It was the hard, ugly sobbing of someone who has lost something dear to them that they only now are beginning to understand. The sobs wracked and shook his body as he gave vent finally to the emotions he held in such careful check for so long. His tears prior to this had always had a misplaced sense of saddened detachment to them, and they never seemed to relieve any of the pent up grief he carried. As they flowed out of him now, he felt the weight on his soul begin to lift. Perhaps this really was the right thing to do, coming here. Perhaps he could bring himself to some sort of closure with the Hunter's death by honoring him where he had fallen. He wiped his eyes and nose on a beleaguered napkin, feeling strength and determination fill him again.

He packed up the rest of his things and stood with a new purpose. He would find his friend's final resting place and beautify it. He would also clean the chapel and then seal it. And then he would do his best to remember the man who had given everything, and do him honor by living the life which the adept had bought with his blood. He checked himself once more before grasping the handle, gaining his mental center. Then he heaved the door open. Or, he would have, but it was stuck. "Damn it," he cursed aloud. He pushed again, and again the door held strong. Grunting with effort, he shouldered into it. "Oomph," escaped his lips as contact was made. And the door remained closed, not budging an inch. He stood back for a minute studying the frame and the lock. Suddenly, feeling much the fool, he grabbed the handle…and _pulled_. The door opened on greased hinges.

"Damien, wait," said a soft voice behind him that he hadn't heard since Mount Shaitan. Turning, he found himself confronted by Karril's stout silhouette. The Iezu moved into the lantern's influence, warm light revealing a familiar, if unexpected, face. And just as Damien began to open his mouth to begin the obvious questions, Karril interrupted, "You need to know something before you go down there. To prepare you." The demon paused and leaned against the side of the passageway then, as if seeking its support for his coming statements. "And I think you need to wait just another few hours before proceeding. I've been down there ahead of you Damien. And I…changed things. Things that won't cement until after full dark." He definitely had Damien's attention now as he continued. "I was there when…it happened. I…saw his death coming. That stupid boy should have never been able to get this far. But he did. And his mind was so set on killing Gerald that all the false walls and distracting techniques I attempted just fell away from his eyes. All he could see was Gerald's death. And so I gave it to him, because I knew that he wouldn't rest until he had felt with his own hands that Gerald was dead. I needed a dead body for that purpose." Karril stopped and took a moment, a seemingly painful one at that. "And so I stopped Gerald's heart…suspended it between moments so that it appeared to that boy that he had died from his heart condition and mortal frailty." Karril shuddered suddenly. "I could never have foreseen that the stupid lout would want a _trophy_ as proof of the Hunter's death!" Karril choked out, the grief in his voice so unlike an Iezu. "I did what I could, do you see? I didn't know what else to do! And when he left…I…" The Iezu threw his hands up. "I was so scared. _Scared_! Do you hear me?! And how can _I_ even feel fear? And the _guilt_. Oh, that is something no one ever warned me of. And those feelings shouldn't even be possible." He paused in his tirade, as if considering something, and took a breath, continuing in a more normal tone. "But then, many things about that man shouldn't have ever been possible. Yet he always seemed able to bend people and events to his will. Why not a simple demon, eh?"

Back and forth Karril went in his description and lamentation of events, and the Iezu's banter began to wear on Damien, the words ceasing to mean anything after a while. And so he soon stopped listening and took stock of his inner reserves. He was tired. Bone tired. A kind of fatigue that one might associate with the scant moments before death claims them. And in his weariness he desired just one thing: to honor his fallen friend. He had no other purpose now, and he would not rest until he had located his remains and accomplished that. "Karril, I don't know what to say," Damien finally spoke, interrupting the demon in mid-sentence. He gestured towards the cellars, saying, "I'm going on ahead. I've spent the last couple of weeks waiting for some kind of purpose or faith to find me and direct my steps once again. Now that it's found me, I don't want it to get away. I've got to do this now, before either my resolve breaks or my body, whichever is first to give out. You can follow, though, if you'd like." And with that, the former priest turned and headed back in the direction of the laboratory and cellars. Karril called after him, rather oddly Damien thought, "It's alright, Vryce. I have no desire to reenter those rooms anytime soon. Take all the time you require, and I'll be here later when you need help." And with those unfathomable words following behind him, Damien picked up his worn feet and continued down the passage.

As he began the trek down the darkened hall, Damien pulled up short, realizing there was almost no light extending down this part of the corridor. About to turn back for his lantern, he flinched as globes of light lit themselves one by one, extending away from him and toward the inner laboratories. He spoke over his shoulder to Karril as he continued on his way, "Thanks, buddy." And his mind drifted a bit as he traversed these smaller hallways. He passed through gilded doors, down flights of stairs, and through receiving rooms. Although, what those rooms would ever have been receiving, he had no idea. And he came upon the final turn quite suddenly, which scattered his thoughts into a myriad of pieces. Standing there at the doorway to a sight that may tear his soul asunder, he felt very small indeed.

Who was there to care? In all the world, there was truly no one but himself and an ancient form of demon who even marked the passing of the man who had saved everything. It seemed so unfair and unfathomable, no matter how logical the answer may seem. Tarrant was a murderer of epic proportions. He created and fed on an evil so black as to tarnish even the purest thoughts of a child. He was, for all intents and purposes, the worst this world had to offer. At least fae-created demonlings were just simple mindless creations driven by their own nature. Tarrant, he was an altogether different sort. He was of this people who colonized the planet; and he had betrayed them utterly. Sure, there were factors being excluded in this statement, such as how the church of his own devising turned against him, his obvious poor treatment at the hands of his own family, and then his own failing health. But these were not to excuse his actions. No. They were mere background fodder for the blackest of souls to build upon. He was evil. He was sin incarnate. He was an unholy monstrosity. He was…_my friend_, Damien thought.

And now here he was at the beginning of his circular thoughts again. Evil turned to good purpose was still evil, right? Or was it? If you forced evil into good acts over and over, could it not then become good itself? Or was there no such thing as redemption for those of Tarrant's caliber? And now, what did that make him? Damien was at a loss for this answer. His tradition trained body and mind had long since dropped the pretenses of automatic hatred and repugnance involving the Hunter. It was far, far past that point. So did this, in turn, make _him_ evil even as he had been turning Tarrant to good? He sighed, loudly.

There was no use in these thoughts. Keep moving. He started forward again, opening the final door to largest of the laboratory chambers. The one in which he had left the Hunter and Andrys. He cleared his thoughts, steadied his breathing, and pushed through the door and down the short staircase, the globes of light continuing to flicker ahead of him. He didn't look around until he reached the bottom of the stairs, his gut clenching as he awaited the sight he dreaded most. But he found nothing. Just a large and dusty chamber with tables and books and other various instruments of science. He made it to the place where he had last stood with the Hunter. He noted very old blood on the ground. _So the bastard moved the body afterward_. Great. He looked around to guess as to where this new resting place might be. A light coming from another doorway attached to this larger chamber caught his eye. Apparently the globes had been trying to lead him, but he hadn't been paying attention due to the mounting fear within him.

He made it to the doorway and peered through, noting that the globes did not go all the way, but merely to a room a few feet down the hall. He moved slowly toward this light, feeling the sickness growing again within. He closed his eyes as he reached the doorway and turned to enter it. And when he opened them again, he couldn't have been more surprised had the One God Himself come down and slapped him. There, on a small bed of dark golden brown satin coverlets, lay the Prince of Jehanna in repose. He looked as chillingly beautiful in death as he did in his unlife. Reclined against the pillows, hands above the covers and clasped over his breast as was the custom of many when burying loved ones. Not a breath stirred in that body; but then, had it ever? And he looked untouched by the violence that had surely befallen him. This was part of what the Iezu had been trying to explain to him, he supposed now. Karril must have masked the wounds and inevitable decay. It relieved him to no degree that he was spared that visual horror. Murals across all four walls depicted scenery from the Forest and the keep. Masterfully done, it was lifelike in its details, almost as if one were truly standing beside the babbling brook illustrated by the artist. An idyllic scene and grand tribute by anyone's measure. Karril had already beaten him to it. Here was the final resting place of Gerald Tarrant. The majesty and beauty of the scene truly fit the man, and Damien was at a loss now as to what to do.

There was a short bench beside the bed, and he sat heavily down onto it, placing his borrowed sword along the wall, feeling out his next actions. And the utter pointlessness of it all hit him. How could he have thought this was a good idea? Gazing sidelong at the figure beside him on the bed, Damien's vision began to cloud. _What was I expecting? Just because he's always found a way out of everything else…_ There was no rationalizing it. Against all sane logic, Damien had truly held a fragile hope that somehow the bond had been pulling him here to receive better news than this. Now, it just felt like a very sad and drawn out affair of self-delusion and desperate hope. He thought of all the other companions he had lost throughout the years, even counting Ciani among them because of the vast shift their relationship had taken. And he paused when thinking on her case. There he had thought he had finally found "the one." That ever-elusive love that poets write about and musicians make their living from translating into sound.

With a sigh that contained much more than just regret over Ciani's loss alone, he turned his thoughts back to loss in general. And how sick of it he was. How was this any kind of justice? How was there any closure? His own righteous indignation banished the tears temporarily as he considered the black treachery that was committed here against Gerald. And then an instant later he deflated as he thought, _And I could have stopped it. Or at least died with him and not had to endure this…_ It was unbearable to imagine carrying this pain forever. He reached out toward Tarrant's hand, pulling up just shy of it as he prepared himself for the difference he would feel now that the soul within was absent. And then he placed his weatherworn and scarred hand over the artistically delicate one of the Hunter. And he gasped as a jolt crashed through him suddenly. As though lightning had drilled through his bones and filled them with icewater. "What the vulk _was_ that?" he asked into the silence. His hand remained where he had placed it, but it tingled with the afterburn of that first contact.

Whatever it was, it had zapped the last remnants of strength from him. He felt as though he'd been awake for days, weeks even. And maybe he had. But it hit him at once, and he felt drugged and sluggish. He began to sway and thought became difficult. He tried to stand and nearly fell across the Hunter's body, landing with both hands pressed to the coverlet. Looking down at the bed he thought to himself maybe it wasn't all that small of a mattress. He leaned down onto it and felt a calm washing over him as he set his course of action to lie beside Tarrant. After all, it really wasn't all that different now from when he'd lain beside him before when they'd been traveling together. That last thought passed through his mind with a certain dark humor attached.

And he fell into the dreamscape fully, finding himself standing at the edge of a maelstrom of power. A huge vortex spreading out in front of him and pulling at his soul. No other object or scenery broke the dark horizon. Besides the swirling mass of energy in front of him, there was nothing else to let him know whether his eyes were open or shut, so dark were the accommodations. The energies themselves seemed so welcoming and beguiling, and the pull was a gentle one. His cares fell away softly, pattering to the ground as inconsequential as life itself had become. He smiled as he stepped toward it, welcoming its promised oblivion and subsequent peace. And he was stopped by the sensation of an arm that came out of nowhere to wrap around his waist and hold him firm. "This is not where you exit the play, Vryce," an oh-so-familiar voice whispered into his ear. A shot of something both hot and cold sprung from his chest and fired his limbs, and strangely enough, his groin. His mind returned to the present with a snap of clarity and threw off the incessant attraction of the energies amassed before him. He found the strength to step back, and the sensation of the vortex lessened. The arm released him before he could even see visible proof of its existence. He turned and found nothing but an empty void. The same as before, only now seeming that much more empty. He stared around himself and his darkened surroundings anxiously, searching for something, anything, to confirm what had just happened.

Finding nothing, he felt despair begin to creep back into his heart just as two hands grasped his shoulders from behind and then slowly ran their way down the sides of his arms, bringing shivers from within him. And again the soft voice spoke, "I _am_ here, my priest…just not as you would understand." The hands had ceased their descent when they reached his forearms and remained there. Oddly enough, this didn't seem to bother him as much as the thought of what the Hunter might be implying. He whispered into the darkness, hoping his voice wouldn't shake, "What do you mean? Are you… Tarrant, are you dead? Truly? Is this, then, what's left to you?" And he waited in horrible anticipation at what the answer might be.

The silence stretched out a little more than was comfortable. The presence at his back did not waver, though, and soon the hands made one full journey up his arms and an even slower one back down again. Just out of his peripheral vision, the hands were felt and not seen. And as they were coming to rest on his forearms again, he felt the Hunter's presence closer, much closer now. Almost flush against him if he had to guess proximity. And the shivers he experienced _this_ time were nothing unknown to him. Strange for this situation perhaps, but not unknown. They were of anticipation…and deeply sexual in origin. And though this disturbed him in some small fashion, it did not affect him as he thought it should have. In this dream atmosphere, it merely provoked a mild curiosity at the source. His thoughts were then interrupted by the answer, finally offered. "_I_ do not even know what it is I am becoming. Something has held me here, though. And that power vortex is a part of it somehow as well, though I cannot discern its source. I haven't fit the pieces all together perfectly yet, Vryce," the adept said as Damien felt one hand slide from his arm and come to rest against his ribs lightly, as if testing. "But I am not dead. And I am coming back. Soon."

And suddenly the distance behind them was closed, and both of those hands with their long slender fingers whose grip had been only lightly touching became strong and slid down his waist and hips to grasp firmly the material overlaying Damien's body. "And I am doing things differently this time, my priest," the whisper came just at his ear. "For I am free now. And I have had plenty of time to consider things. Things which you may have not yet. And so I have been seeking a different kind of Knowing lately." And then he vanished from behind Damien, and though the priest was confused emotionally and logically, it still felt as an aching loss within himself once that closeness was broken. Its pain almost physical in nature. A mortal loss. A chuckle issued forth from the darkness, "And I think I have my answer," a last whisper reached his ears just before he awakened.

Eyes blasted open. Air rushed in. He felt as though he had been holding his breath the entire time he was dreaming. Thought and kinetics gathered speed at their own pace returning to his control. And then the events of the dream clashed back into focus as his vision narrowed in on the figure he was lying beside. Tarrant! Alive! He stopped himself. _Or, at least, I dreamed he was,_ he thought to himself. Was it real then? _Or have I just become so detached from reality that I now create my own events as I like them?_ No, he was certain he had experienced something. Something profound and unknowable. But just because he didn't understand it didn't make it any less true. Glancing again at the reclined figure beside him, a thought struck him.

He stumbled up to the door and shouted down the corridor, "Karril!" And after a few moments, he tried again, but there was still no answer. And the Iezu should have been able to "hear" him no matter the proximity, providing he was "listening" out for it. So he wasn't here. Or, he just wasn't able to respond yet. Perfect. He heaved himself away from the doorframe and tottered back over to the bed, slumping down onto the side of it. He was slowly beginning to feel better since waking, but it was damn sure taking its time. _Getting old_, he laughed silently.

He had no true way to tell time at his disposal, but he had learned the knack for gauging a close estimate of the hour in his early years of monastic training. By his best guess, he hadn't been unconscious for very long, and he supposed the hour was near enough to midnight that he would even bet on it. _So, nothing to do but wait around until either Karril returns or I drive myself even crazier._ He stood and went to his pack, bringing it back to the bed with him all while trying not to focus too much on the all-too-dead body next to him. _He'll be alright. He said he was coming back, _he thought as he sat on the side edge of the bed. And if there was only one person whom Damien would believe when they said they'd return from the dead, that person was Gerald Tarrant. And so, feeling he had sufficiently reassured himself, he pulled out his journal and began to catalogue his thoughts on the last few weeks with his back turned on what had recently been the most feared entity on Erna. A few false starts, and then he was well on his way to authorship. And he was still writing long after another hour had passed in relative oppressive silence.

The first thing he noticed was the drop in temperature. He looked up from his journal and stared at the wall across from him. Still. Everything was so still. It seemed strange to describe inanimate objects as being immobile, but that was the sense he got from the room. Like an audience holding its collective breath, not daring to move. Slowly, he became aware of a mist in front of his face. _My breath_. And as he noticed that, he set his pen down carefully on the bench beside the bed and breathed deeply. And then, from behind, legs slid down the outside of each of his own. And arms snaked their way underneath his while pale hands came to rest on the outside of his thighs. His breath caught, every muscle tensed, as a solid icy torso connected with his back. Not even a rustle of cloth or movement of air had accompanied the adept's graceful coup. And just as he thought he might say something into the frosty stillness, he felt breath in his hair as the words, "Hello, Vryce," left the lips of someone he had thought beyond all recall.

Against gravity itself it felt as he leaped forward and away from that cold presence, whirling around as he did so. And when he did, when those hazel eyes met the glacier gray of the Hunter's, he felt as though something was pulling him back towards the other man. But he rooted his feet to the ground and stood firm. Tarrant gave an almost-smile as if acknowledging the battle he knew Vryce was fighting within, and at the same time, he gestured with one lazy hand to the journal still in Damien's grasp. "Bedtime stories, Vryce? You should know I prefer things somewhat…darker." The globes in the room dimmed a bit at that statement. But Damien only stared for now at the figure before him, as if trying to affix this in his mind as being real. Being true.

"I just can't believe it. I mean, you're here. Again," Damien finally managed to say. "And it's not that I'm not happy for it, but… Why? _How_?" The Hunter stretched up to his feet and rolled his shoulders and joints as though they had been ill-used of late. He looked around the room slowly, appreciating each scene even as Damien had when he had first entered here. He mused over one wall for a few moments longer and then turned to face the priest, approaching slowly as he did. "Why, Vryce? I do not yet know. And how? Well, I suspect that a certain Iezu will be more knowledgeable concerning the topic. This has his fae-writ all over it." Tarrant stopped short from Damien by scant inches, the cold radiating outward from his body creating chill bumps along the priest's. "I have suspicions, though, considering the push and pull I feel in the fae right now." It seemed he was disinclined to continue, though, as he simply continued his somewhat predatory stare into Damien's face.

Damien spoke up, figuring he'd had enough of secrets and hiding and worrying. Did the other man actually still think he harbored some deluded ideas of vengeance? "Tarrant. _Tell me_. No more of this crap about each other's weaknesses and whatever other insane ideas you may have about me betraying you. If I had meant you harm, then I surely have the worst timing. So out with it." Tarrant watched him through all this with an amused expression. "_You_ harm me? Oh no, priest. That is not the issue at all. I am only just now, as we are speaking, able to work any thought into my situation at all. The truth is that I honestly don't know enough to say." And so Damien now felt like an idiot. "Oh," he replied stupidly back to Tarrant, "Well, why don't you discuss your thoughts out loud and see where we get?"

"Very well. In my state as you encountered in the dream, I was unable to contact this world in any meaningful way so as to ascertain the cause behind my return. And therefore..." "Hey, wait a minute," Damien interrupted, "About those dreams, and this last one in particular…" Tarrant waved a hand in a downward chopping motion as he began pacing, "We shall address those later. Focus now. Therefore, I was unable to gather any intelligence on my situation until just minutes ago when I reawakened to find you here." "So what did you mean about the push and pull of power on you?" Damien asked.

"For certain I still feel the fae," Tarrant began, and with a wave of his hand the globes winked out and then back on, "And apparently I can still interact with it as well. I find this odd since the Patriarch's sacrifice should have severed this kind of connection. However, the push and pull I mentioned is the Forest itself. I can feel it as never before, even in the height of my power, Vryce. I feel connected to it now in a way that is most likely vital to my survival. It's almost…almost as if…" Tarrant swung about from his pacing, a look of discovery alight on his face as he approached Damien again, stopping a few feet away.

"Vryce, I was _unbound_, don't you see? Granted, I had prodigious powers of my own to draw from, but my body was dying before, even as we had set out to return here from Shaitan, it was dying from being unbound. It just didn't happen as quickly as I had thought it would, so I didn't think to consider that possibility as being the reason behind my painful physical weakness. But now, now I feel as strong, if not stronger, than before." Damien began to comprehend, but with a dawning horror, "You're bound again," he whispered, terror thrumming through him. "Yes, Vryce, but not to what you're thinking. Not It, never again _It_. But the Forest, now, _there_ lies a source of power which I have already conquered and subdued. An endless supply due to its nature as a vortex for dark fae. Yes. I can feel it even now, supporting me. Feeding me."

Damien stood there taking it all in. It made sense. Good sense. But then, "How did it happen?" Tarrant looked thoughtful as he replied, "I remember Karril being there with me when Andrys was here. I was so weak and practically dead at the time, though, I wasn't really able to pay much attention to anything. I think, at the end there, I had passed out. He must have done something, Worked a Bonding, that connected me to the Forest. It's not really a complicated Working even. But performed on anyone else, the Forest would have destroyed them. Hmmm. It appears I am in somewhat of a debt to the insolent demon," he finished with wry amusement.

Damien was about to bring up another questionable point of fact when the Hunter closed the distance between them and the room darkened to almost lightlessness. The priest didn't flinch, but he felt every bone and tendon creak under the stress to hold still. Something that could have been a sigh issued from the adept's silhouette before he spoke, "Unbound, priest. And now bound again. But this time to myself. Do you know what that means?" And Damien suddenly _didn't_ know. After all, this creature in front of him was capable of, and had committed, acts of violence and evil for nearly a century. Who was to say that he had only performed those services due to the nature of his Contract? Perhaps now that the adept's honor would no longer be a threat to his own existence…a certain priest might no longer find himself under its sheltering umbrella.

Dread began to worm its way into his gut, and a light sweat broke out on him. Tarrant, ever able to read him, laughed darkly, "Really, Vryce. Is that what you think? Let me show you different." And the Hunter was behind him suddenly as he had been in the dream, hands running lightly over Damien's shoulders and arms. Then they stopped. "Do you hear that, Vryce? Your breathing. It quickens when I am near. Why is that?" And one hand came to slide along the inside of an arm. "And you get chills at my presence that have nothing to do with my temperature. Hmmm." And then that same hand ran over Damien's flank and under his shirt to touch his lower abdomen, shockwaves of an internal nature pulsing within him. "And Damien," the whisper came, "Your heart races at my touch. Why. Is. That?" the adept asked as he lightly dragged his nails over the priest's skin.

For Damien, this was becoming too much and entering realms of confusion hereto unthought of. Too much surprise. Too much to think about. Too much…pleasure? By the way his lower half was responding to the caresses of the adept, he had to assume that he was now in trouble of the deepest kind. Drowning in an ocean of uncertainty, he stepped away from Tarrant and turned to face him while continuing to back away. "I don't know what you're talking about Tarrant. And I sure can't see how you can seem so damn sure of yourself when you've been practically dead for the last few weeks." Damien felt the bed bump into the back of his legs. _Shit_. Tarrant glided over to him, almost mesmerizing with his fractured mercury eyes. "I can see your eyes dilate as I come closer, Vryce. Your heart, I can see the pulse in your throat racing as I near. I see everything, Vryce. Bound to myself. I am doing things differently this time around." Tarrant paused for a moment as if thinking.

And then the firm certainty returned to the adept's eyes as he continued, "Vryce, a good while back I discovered something about myself. And about you, too, I imagine. It only solidified for me those moments before my death on Shaitan. And then, after that, I was too mortally tired, weak, and apparently dying to ever focus on my discovery again. Until I came to reside in that dream space." Tarrant reached out briefly and grazed Damien's face with a slender finger, drawing a shiver from the priest…and also one from the Hunter himself. Tarrant's eyes closed for moment, and then he opened them, gazing at a point over Damien's shoulder, to finish his speech, "Did you know, Damien, that love and hate are so intricately woven together that they can become all but inseparable during times of highly emotional states? Oh yes. I have subscribed to that belief for a long, long time." And then Tarrant's eyes flicked back to hold Damien's in a powerful stare. "But I never believed it, truly believed, until now."

And with that, the Hunter reached for Damien, pulling them close and tumbling them onto the mattress. The breath whooshed out of the priest as the other man landed on top of him. Feelings of confusion and excitement rushed through him. And other emotions he could not put a name to just yet. He felt as a mouse in the snare of a snake, helpless and mesmerized, as he watched those perfect marble lips lower to his own. And when they met, bursts of color ended his night vision temporarily. But oh, the sensation of that cold, hard body above him that had once been relegated to merely being a traveling companion, a brother in arms…he couldn't think about it, much less describe it. His own internal thought processes were shutting down.

Then there was a scrambling, as if to see who could unveil the most flesh the quickest. Buttons flew, cloth ripped, silk tore from slender shoulders pale as numarble… And then they were skin on skin. Damien's brain couldn't wrap around this choice of coupling, but he didn't care. All of his emotions, all of his worries, and all of his fears were blown to nothing before this torrential gale of passion they both rode together. There was nothing in his sexual repertoire to prepare him for this, but as with anything possessing sufficient need, the fae rendered possible the impossible for them. Gerald's fingers traced fiery arcs on and around Damien's shoulders and abdomen. The priest's scars provided mappings worthy of following with a quick tongue. And Damien found himself marveling at the beauty of the flesh beneath his own fingertips, feeling as though he couldn't get close enough to the other to satisfy his need.

When they at last joined together and found the marvel of singularity, both slowed pace for a few moments, savoring the feel of this new kind of connection they were discovering. The bond flared several times during, as though it was undecided as to what was occurring. Each time, it merely intensified the feelings of each for the other, as it fed their true emotion and thought along itself, allowing them to more deeply connect on levels spiritual as well as physical. Beautiful and perfect, this thing they did, that they created, grew within both of their hearts until neither could contain an ounce more. Glittering fragments of who they had once been fell to the floor with all pretenses of ever having been anything else. Nothing so fragile had ever held the Hunter prisoner before, and yet he was as tethered to this mortal as any human soul had ever been to flesh. There was something ethereal, yet solid as stone, about this new thing expanding within them. And it was right, so right. As if the very stars in Heaven had coordinated events of the past to lead them to this point and to each other. Damien's name escaped the Hunter's lips at the end when they collapsed together. Damien's own voice having given out a long while before. And they lay there in the sated, sweaty dimness, wondering how on Erna it had all come to this from a beginning of such open hostility. Love and hate indeed.

E/N: Whew! That was a while in the making. My next long project may be even more drawn out as it is a tough subject to tackle. Hopefully someone is still reading this stuff at all, though…


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